


Not an Advantage

by Kaiseilin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Young Mycroft, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiseilin/pseuds/Kaiseilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Alone is what I have. Alone is what protects me."</p>
<p>A look into where those words came from and how they changed Sherlock Holmes. A brother saying goodbye and a child learning to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not an Advantage

He was going to be late if this continued.

 

Late as in he would be _on time_ rather than fashionably early. The thought makes him shudder and he angrily searches for his suit jacket about his room. It was a very particular, very specifically bought suit jacket just for this occasion. The occasion being the presentation evening at his university, one of the last times he'd see the place before he was out in the world doing his job.

 

And he, nor any of the house assistants could find the damn thing! It had been in his room, cleaned and ready in a suit holder in the wardrobe for two weeks now. Until today when he came to put his suit on - the jacket was nowhere. Nobody had sent it to be cleaned; it was brand new.

 

Which meant.

 

“Sherlock!” He marches to the door and angrily pulls it open, just in time to see a mop of hair round the corner at the end of the hallway. “Get back here at once!” He yells, thunders up the hall and forces Sherlock's door open, runs to grab him as he tries to scramble under the bed.

 

With some horror he realises his brother is  _wearing_ his very expensive suit jacket as he's scrambling about the room. “Take that off  _this instant!”_ He demands, letting go of his brother so as not to crease it more than necessary. The younger sibling had forced himself into a gap between the bed and the side table and sat in a ball, refusing to look upwards. “I wont ask you again Sherlock. Give me back my jacket, I am going to be late.” His voice remains calm, steady by the deep breath he'd taken before opening his mouth, though it came with all the tones of a waning bearing dangerous consequences. 

 

His younger brother shakes his head furiously into his knees and Mycroft feels his rage grow. His sibling had been particularly difficult lately. He was reckless and disobedient, always being scolded and up to no good.  _Always_ at crucial moments like this. “Sherlock I am going to count to three.” He says steadily. “One.”

 

Head shaking.

 

“Two.”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

“Three.”

 

“NO!”

 

Sherlock begins screaming in protest as Mycroft lunges for him, unable to scramble past his looming figure. His elder brother has him painfully by the arm and scruff off the neck. “No! NO! NO NO NO!” He shouts in succession, wincing at the pain of his hair being pulled and begins so cry tearlessly when he's placed across his brothers lap on the bed and the jacket is pulled firmly and precisely from him. 

 

He rolls off his brothers knees and to the floor in a heap when the jacket is gone and adopts the foetal position miserably. “Stupid! Idiot Mycroft! I HATE YOU!” He shouts, hands over his ears, kicking the furniture near to him (wardrobe) furiously. 

 

“Quiet down you _bloody nuisance!_ ” Mycroft yells back, smoothing his jacket down, enraged, as his brother has a tantrum at his feet. “I'm sick of you playing up like this! What is this all _for_ Sherlock!? For gods sake!” He sighs, tries to regain composure while his brother tucks his face into his knees and sniffs pointedly. He checks his pocket watch, lip wrinkling, he's nine minutes behind schedule. The car ride would take fifteen minutes, leaving ten before the start of the presentation. He needs to go.

 

Sherlock is still there, sniffling on the floor. “I'll ask you again.” He starts in spite of himself. “What is this all for?” He wants to leave, let his brother be angry but he can't. He can't despite the constant feelings that caring is disadvantageous to either of them. He wants the reasons. He wants the behaviour and the crying to stop. In spite of himself he cares. “Why the crocodile tears?”

 

“Go away!” Comes the reply and Mycroft closes his eyes and counts to five. 

 

“Fine.” He stands. “You _want_ me to go now, fine.”

 

A garbled noise of frustration and an angry kick can be heard from the floor as he turns. The wardrobe receiving unneeded violence again and he stands back by the bed. “Do you want me to go?”

 

“...no.” The reply is meek and Mycroft rewards his good behaviour by sitting, checking his watch again. One minute gone. 

 

“What do you want?”

 

Nothing.

 

“ _Sherlock._ ”

 

“Stay!”

 

He rolls over but keeps his face tucked into his own arms, Mycroft quietly watches. 

 

“Elaborate.” He instructs. Waits. Fifteen seconds. 

 

A small whiny noise, feeble tantrum, broken words. “No...stupid...” More mumbling he can't make out. “Always...leave...”

 

“You dislike it when I leave.” It's a statement. Mycroft is seldom at the house. He's a busy young man with a huge and ambitious career mapped out ahead of him and that kind of ambition requires time. Time away from home, away from everyone, from Sherlock. 

 

“Everyone!” A small fist punches the floor. “You all go! You're all so stupid!” One hand is playing with the lace of Mycroft's large shoe now but the other still shields his brothers small face. The words were bitter but not loud. 

 

“Sometimes.” Mycroft speaks softly, knowing this isn't just about him, he allows his voice to be sincere. “People have to go.”

 

“NO!” Sherlock cries, rolls onto his back and kicks, both arms flung over his face. “Everyone goes! Dad is gone! You go! Mummy's going to _die_!” He chokes as he rolls back and forth and Mycroft realises the tears are real, not the kind he uses when he wants to get away with things. “ _Mummy's_ going to _die!_ ” He coughs as tear tracks run into his nose and mouth and he cries earnestly. 

 

Six minutes are gone. Mycroft will be late for his presentation. 

 

“Off the floor now.” He speaks, leans down and grabs his brother round the middle, the younger boy protests feebly for show but when Mycroft sits him across his lap and holds him to his chest he melts completely into it and weeps. He's seen this coming for a while. He hoped it wouldn't be at such an inconvenient time but then again this was Sherlock. None of this family were good at feelings, tact _or_ timing really. 

 

“Don't leave!” The boy squeaks, spluttering as he sniffs and Mycroft takes his handkerchief from his inside pocket and wipes the boys face. 

 

“Blow your nose.” He commands, Sherlock blows dutifully into the tissue before burying his face into the jacket again, hiccuping softly through tired tears. 

 

“Don't go.” Sherlock says again and Mycroft sighs, doesn't say anything because it's not the answer his brother wants to hear and not the one he wants to give. He thinks quietly for a few minutes while rubbing the boy's back until he calms down. He rocks gently like their mother used to do to him. It works, Sherlock stops crying after a while and is tired, limp in his arms. 

 

Mycroft knows Sherlock doesn't make friends well. His brother is clever, like him,  _too_ clever for his age. Too clever for the classes he's in and with a big fat temper to match. Outcast by his age and mocked by those in higher years. Pulled out of school after one too many fights. Taught at home, alone. Always alone. Their dad is gone. Their mum is going. He's  _always_ alone.

 

Mycroft has learnt to deal with other people, stupid people, human beings. He'd accepted that those you care about will die, will leave. He'd taught himself to rely on himself only, work only, and ignore feelings that get in the way. He's had  _years_ .

 

Sherlock is a  _boy_ . A lonely boy with too big a mind and too little time and body to fit it into. 

 

“People are always going to leave us Sherlock.” He begins. “Mother will die, I will die, you will die, eventually.” He rubs circles into the boy's palm, it's always calmed him. The sight of his large thumb in that tiny hand pulls at something in his chest that he catalogues and files away. It does no good to be hypocritical. “People will die...and they will lie to us...and they will leave us...and make us sad, or angry. We can let them make us sad or angry...or we can stop causes.” He closes his eyes, knows Sherlock will listen _intently_ , knows he will take in his words, which is what makes this difficult. Sherlock loved him and he trusted him. Mycroft hoped this was for the best, it was better for _him_ but Sherlock was different. Sherlock _wanted_ to know people, he _wanted_ to find out what made things the ways they were. Mycroft didn't. Mycroft wasn’t lonely, he was content being alone. Sherlock was bad at being alone. 

 

He sighs. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” He tells him. “Everyone's heart gets broken, everyone dies. Caring about such things only makes life harder.” He rests his forehead on the younger boy's. “Alone is not a bad thing. Alone protects people from those bad feelings.” He whispers. “It will get easier with time.”

 

He takes a deep breath of his brother's hair and then lays him gently on the bed. His brothers eyes are sad and red but they hold all the focus of a genius trying to understand his own pain. They're too innocent and too searching and Mycroft finds it hard to maintain contact with them for more than a moment.

 

He hopes that if he's wrong, there will come a person who can one day make things right again for his brother. It's the last sentimental thought he allows himself.

 

He stands and he walks towards the door, stopping when he gets there. “I will be home later this evening.” He says, and exists, his brothers eyes watch him all the way until the door clicks shut.

 

He feels as though he's saying goodbye for a much longer time. 


End file.
